A Day like Sunday
by PrideMySin
Summary: A take on the mind of the one who so evades being shown, Lord Sunday, master of all.
1. The Show Is Starting

**Disclaimer:** The Keys to the Kingdom belongs to Garth Nix.

* * *

_A Day like Sunday_

_I began to lie to get exactly what I wanted when I wanted it…_

_Now, I'm having trouble differentiating between what I want and what I need to make me happy…_

_So instead of thinking I just act before I have a chance to contemplate the consequence of action…_

_-Flawed Design, Stabilo

* * *

_

"Of all damn atrocities of mind," he hissed in response to the silence, his always there albeit unwelcomed guest. With a casted sigh, he leaned back on his chair with eyes directed to the ceiling in an office so vast, it matched the space of a cathedral of the most extravagant detail. What met him was a large, stained glass window to the outside world where sunlight flourished and nature warmed the hearts. This sunlight glided across this glass threshold, illuminating the art in its magnificence. A gilded book of all languages and words of all letters and hieroglyphics surrounded by time and space, nostalgia, a friendly face, came over to him to give back the memories that lived under this roof.

But this was a time of war, defeat, and terror. Back then was then and so he assumed his original position.

Lord Sunday sat hunched over his desk, pen in hand furiously finishing the paperwork scattered upon his burnished immaterial desk. However, even with being created with a material so resilient to all bashes and blows either physical or sorcery, it had still received scars from lashes by Sunday out of anger and frustration over the pressing issues back then to the wars that now plague him now. These plagues he abhorred for they took away from his time and especially himself.

Exhausted, he brought his hands together to his chin and rested. Particular attentions slipped from his grasp. Concentration literally evaded him. A matter, something so very important, drove a spike deep in the lobe of his mind, unrelenting and cold. A matter he could not deal with, a hindering problem that could not be identified. What was the beast with sharpened claws attached to his mind for, what was the problem? "Grrr…"

With eyes simply gazing over words that had no meaning, not anymore, what was all this? He set the file on the polished metal desk, riddled with papers of all kinds. Organizing was never his strong spot, however it never hampered him. A still hand, his, but alien. Frozen like his thoughts, chained to the ground in silver links and rusted shackles, unable to budge, to fly on gifted wings. Restraint, he hated it. He detested it, the clipped wings and failing feathers. Life loves mischief doesn't it, he thought. This feeling, a piercing lance of something that wasn't pain but masquerading as it, lifted in silent feet to then suddenly pounce. What I've received is something that'll never let go.

For every action, every lie, that feeling came alive; burning through his mind to become front and center; he reviled it. With a tightening of his shackles, it always pulled him back unable to complete his goals. My goals, he smirked which then soon faded away to confused and apprehensive movement of his lips. It blazed its way though his words and thoughts exposing the consequences clear and fine. The consequences of my goals, he continued. Everything felt absolute immoral, horrible; it all had become something he disgusted. It all felt wrong. Just _wrong_.

Was is always so bright and obvious or had he just ignored it. He set the pen down and sighed, running a hand through his hair, a delicate black mixed with lines of auburn. The other traced his chin in heavy thought; handsome beyond human imagination, a pure example of perfection to the utmost. Fitting for the master of the House, ruler of all.

What annoyed him the most, or so he thought, was the wickedness of watching others suffer around him. Safe in his haven, assured of his power, he would make others burn. This offense it caused, it didn't hurt; he just didn't like the feeling. Why the sudden awareness of his malicious deeds? Troubled as well as infuriated, he slammed his fist upon the table, its violent vibration unsettling a stack of papers to the smooth marble floor. His scowl only deepened on his face.

"Something wrong, my lord?" A tall denizen, clad in a black, sharp dress suit, questioned as she entered Sunday's private office. As she walked towards Sunday, her ebony wings flowed behind her with some invisible force of gentle wind, creating the illusion of a long, midnight dress curving ever so smoothly behind her, glistening with droplets of stars that weaved around her body. With a petite frame, she was a stunning woman; flawless features equal to her rank as Sunday's Dusk.

"Nothing Dusk. The report? Specifically the part on my…arrangement?" he simply stated, scowl relaxing to a more natural sneer. Furtively eager to listen for the reply of the results, he leaned ever forward. His hand supported his chin, the fingers of the other simply tapping the table. Dusk flinched at every click, so Sunday soon ceased the action for he wanted her to talk. Time was of essence. In the recesses of his mind, it worked through all possible scenarios. He was careful enough, yes, for everything to end in his only outcome he planned, his success, his victory. Tainted with corruption and wicked wants, argent eyes of blue flare set to a gaze of a merciless demeanor, one that could kill you for no reason whatsoever under unfortunate circumstances."Well?"

"It's all going to plan my lord. We have apprehended Saturday and her forces," Sunday tilted his head. She bit her tongue and quickly added, almost stumbling over the words, "We're also in the process of dealing with the will." Rocking back and forth on her heel uncomfortable under the suppressing leer of her lord, she tried to look as dignified as possible.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," He waved, uninterested. "What about our resilient pest, the "heir" to the throne and our captive?" Those words said brought certain thoughts to mind, certain feelings to rise. Did he feel…sorry? No. He scorned the inadvertent thought. All this was nothing, nothing! He did not care. A frown swept across his face, this was idiotic! Lacing his sight, obscuring his vision, frustration bubbled underneath his calm demeanor, but most anchored inside under vigilantly cared for lock and key, hardly seeping. He closed his eyes.

Frightened as a little mouse in the sight of a voracious tiger, Dusk shuffled away from Sunday, extremely worried if she angered him in any way. The frustration only died down to a simmer, which was as far as he could get it too. He took a quick glance and saw Dusk's petrified expression, her frame growing smaller as if she wanted to disappear. He forced his scowl to abate into a tight thin lipped smile. "Don't…worry Dusk. You've done nothing…wrong. Just give me what you have on Arthur Penhaligon and his mother," so said in a voice so low and lack of usual spite.

Surprised at first at the soft words, he was but this surprise then muddled the shallow waters of their conversation into bewilderment at the forced kindness and false compassion that seemed to strain his muscles to rupture. This didn't even close meet what she was expecting, what she did was a roaring tiger, a burst of fuming rage.

"Well, as far as we know, Arthur Penhaligon is unaccounted for. My forces are on the lookout; they'll report as necessary. As for the prisoner, she's under complete surveillance and currently causing no trouble as all." She was treading warily now; terrified of igniting the spark of Sunday's anger after such the dramatic result before. Being lucky twice in a row was unheard of. All he did was rub his temples without reply.

He could feel the chains tighten, the lance piercing even deeper, nausea enveloped his senses with its vile dizziness. He concentrated on the nearest thing that wasn't his anger to pass the sick sensation; his consciences chose Dusk's breathing. He heard it quicken with slight whimpers of fear, fast and erratic. Imagining what she felt, he was glad. It wasn't of conflicting notions or words rather it was clear, straight, and loyal. Sickness subsided for now.

Now abruptly aware of his length of silence, with a swift motion, he commanded Dusk away. She bowed and placed the files on his desk to then walked, more like a half-run, out the door. Like streams of clear, life-giving water, relief rushed over her as she cleared the door. For comfort and shelter, she wrapped her wings around her. Feathers brushed over her face, she-.

"So, sister, you look quite the fright." Her enjoyment of her wings was interrupted by the merry chiming of Noon's voice, one that brought joy to others around him. Joy, she needed after her bout with Sunday. With gallant wings outstretched, he glided down towards Dusk. "Surely, dear. You'll wait for me?"

"I'll always wait for you Noon," she answered. As soon as his feet tapped the floor, he danced around behind her, and gave a quick peck on the cheek. Blushing in accordance, Dusk hid her face with a giggle. He smiled and embraced her in his arms as tightly as one would do for the love of his life to which her reaction was feeble push and shove."Noon, please."

After minutes of urging, Noon finally let her go and walked with her to their offices. At least, he got off with the compensation of having her hold his arm. "So," he started,"How was your chat with the lord?"

"Could've worse."

"Don't you mean better?"

"He didn't get really angry." Noon leaned closer to her face with the most ridiculous face of curiosity he could muster. Dusk laughed, "Well, it was different."

"Really now," he whistled. "I wonder why?"

"You're not going to spy on him again."

"But-"

"He knows," she said, face blank.

Noon squeaked, falsely horrified! "All this time?"

"Yes."

"Uh-oh."

As the two sauntered off into the sunset, Sunday was left brooding over his damned predication. Pacing back and forth across the marble floor, heels clicking, the file was in hand with his another attempt to focus on the pages. What he ended up with, much to his now frothing frustration was nothing but the thoughts that still tailed him, never leaving the sanctity of himself. Why wouldn't they leave, they weren't his. None of it was. His scowl came back, deeper; his fist clenched so forcefully wanting to break something, anything just because. He took up the file once more and flipped through it for the last time. He involuntarily came to the page of the welfare of Dr. Emily Penhaligon. Maybe, he needed to devote his time to other matters, a technical breath of fresh air.

"I guess it's time for a little visit."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The Keys to the Kingdom belongs to Garth Nix

* * *

_A Day like Sunday_

_Think about a coin. It has two sides, one perfectly distinct from another. But when you flip it, muddle the waters; disturb the events, both sides blur into one entity so indistinct.

* * *

_

Master of the House, leader for the denizens, overseer of all matters existing, these titles meant something to him. Proof, undeniable, of his power, his intellect, he deserved it and he wouldn't let it all be stolen away by some runt of the sewers chanting over and over 'he's the rightful heir'. Bull, he thought, all those who followed the useless rubbish this false prophet spouts need to be punished. The heir filled minds with awful ideas that are unproductive, turning denizens to traitors to the rightful way of order around here. Lord Sunday only huffed at the insignificant bug as his competitor. It seemed so unfair, for this boy to be pitted against the great god he was. But a competitor nonetheless, he laughed. Why, he didn't care. It just felt right as if it was something that actually eased all…

Fears…

Fear, he was wrong. Fear that signaled his losing confidence in his abilities as the master of the House, leader for the denizens, overseer of all matters existing. The heir was the heir after all, not a bug. He had power and would soon have more than what this falling god had. Sunday would lose his standing, casted to the ground. He would be nothing! Someone turned the heat up on the pan of frustration; flames searing the copper bottom, starting the reaction. He heard it sizzle and pop, just cut the gas. Tasting rust and iron, so unpleasant he almost gagged, the blood quickly stopped seeping from where he bit his lip.

Fear, human response, a human property, something he was better than. But doesn't fear make you keep running, keep going, keep doing, keep progressing, never stopping. Runrunrunrun as fast you can. You can't escape it. You know it. But I know, he violently whispered. He walked faster now, why? The echoes of the tapping heels, the leftover warped syllables of past conversations, ran hard and fast away from him through the halls, just run. Questions continued but so did he to his destination. Don't you want to run?

All movement stopped at this very question. He was left stranded on the stretching, white marble stairway with one foot on the lower step. His hand tightened on the gold railings. He had no answer, nothing wanted to speak up. Shadows swept gaily between the crevices of the stairs, eyeing Sunday curiously as if waiting for a word. They waited for his hand to unclench the railings and carry on sliding with him down his tower. They waited for his answer.

"I'm here to stay," he finally concluded, "and I'll burn anyone in my way." How far did that determination reached? He did not walk anymore; he ran down all the steps, past few stretches of walls, both architectural feats of amazing awe and glory, past the lights supplied by undying sorcery, forever burning, forever fueling the shadows. The floor reflecting the shock of his face at his action, it caught him shake his head. Lord Sunday wouldn't run, so why would he? Stop thinking about it. It'll go away, bury it as far as you can under. Power, was what he had, more right now than the heir and the current state of the will combined. Don't worry, he tried to reassure himself. Don't worry, better times will soon come. A steel determination will be unbreakable. Against a force with seemingly no end to its strength, hope will carry you on fragile but unyielding feathers. Please do not worry.

He walked with forced suppression to the main doors of his tower. Denizens greeted him with empty words that had nothing lacing the air, no emotion, nothing human. Ignoring all the talk, all the murmurs, all the noise, he kept walking focused on only the moving earth not his mind. Denizens who saw him pass didn't care if he didn't answer. They presumed he had more important things to mull over. Presumption correct.

A suppressing atmosphere of the crowded lower levels merged to the cold, dank hole of the prison more specially the front office. All stone and blear decors, this wasn't a very nice place to be, he thought. He faced the officer in charge of the establishment sitting in his chair; a denizen half asleep, blissfully unaware, and clothe in a sort of officer uniform. Sunday curled his lips in displeasure and grabbed a book of the table between them and beat the man, not once but as many times as his displeasure lasted or was it until he saw the expression of his face? The wide eyes of burning fear, arms raised to defend, what am I doing? A dull thud of a falling book marked the end of the onslaught as the book now lay back in its resting place over old papers with its friend, the empty cup of tea.

The officer lay on his back on the grey ground, cracked with age and neglect. Heavy breaths condensing in the frigid temperatures so far underground - where earth was the most condense and these types of building were safely above the Upper House-, shaking fingers that grabbed the table in effort to stand. Not bothering to help, Sunday waited; no anger, no compassion. The shaking man adjusted himself.

"L-lord Sunday, sir. Uh…w-what brings you here?" he stuttered, hunched in pain and terror, rubbing the purple bruises. Sunday stared at the sniveling thing before him, a half appalled, the other even with the gas metaphorically cut, frustration still had heat. This thing shouldn't be living, it thought. He waited for the appalled one to pitch in its defensive words like always. It comforted him whenever things went accordingly. Yet disappointed and scared for no reason that should be normal, he heard nothing.

"Let me see Dr. Emily Penhaligon," Sunday commanded. The denizen nodded and led his lord through the tunnels. Repeating over and over the pattern of locked doors and monotone gray, they stopped at one door no different from the others. Hollow voices and mechanical whispers, the locking mechanism unlocked with grating sounds as a dying beast calling for help. The denizen nodded again and fidgeted with his pocket to pull out a battered torchlight. There was no lighting in the cells, but Sunday refused it. Not even to bother look at the man whether though pity or dislike he didn't know, Sunday moved in.

With a final clang, the door shut and locked as to standard procedure, it resonated in his ears and in his mind he felt the fear, not his. Through the darkness, eyes wide and terrified, this time belonging to a mortal.

"Scared?" the word slipped through; did it apply more to him than her? He heard the rattling of chains, the sliding of a lance, a tarnished gleam of metal.

"Bugger off bastard," a feeble voice of a female, acting tougher than what she possibly felt right now, he deduced. Grinning ear to ear, smiting anger turned to idyllic entertainment, why? She was weak, only flesh and bone. No sorcery of any kind. He could crush her instantly, so simple, so easily. Considered an impossible feat, the temperature lowered than what was before when he entered the room. The word scared struck her, hair tingly in fright. She withdrew her knees closer to her body dragging the shackles that imprisoned her. She gasped at his sudden laugh, low and demonic. Who was he, this new torturer?

Silver sparks, lithe and constantly shifting in length and width, cracked and spiked in the room, the air filled with electricity. Every breath prickled her lungs, quickly jolting her heart with small shocks. They ran down what she proposed was his arm, converging into his hand. Disappearing as soon as it had appeared, the electricity died down. In its place was a silver pocket watch on a gold chain wrapped around his fingers, the watch itself idly swung back and forth, unnaturally glowing with some light that left lightning trails of movement. She stared, transfixed on the only source of light.

Swinging once more in oblivion, a blue flare appeared above them. Insatiable with its want for substance, rising ever higher, brighter, cooler. No heat resonated from this burning body. In an illuminated room by an azure surge of muted light casting all darkness away but their shadows, she caught glimpse of her capturer. A tall man of gaunt features yet sinfully beautiful, dressed in dark trousers, vest, and tie. His fanged grin gave a ghastly sickness in her stomach. He didn't look very inviting.

"Who are you?" said she, struggling to keep her fear in check. Those eyes, so twisted, with a gaze so sharp, ripped apart the bravery she tried to muster. "Where am I? What do you want with me?" She was almost screaming those last questions. Chilling to bone, he only chuckled.

"I," announced he, flamboyantly gesturing to himself, "am Lord Sunday, master of all matters existing. Everything is under my complete and utter control." His voice scared her so much, emotionless, wanting to feel, to feel her pain and sorrow as she scream and cried. She had heard those voices before, maniacs, villains, _murderers_. What was going on? The last weeks were full blown hell, so much. Now she is suddenly here, kidnapped by a demon licking its lips, hungry. Alone with dried tears clouding her glasses, she wanted it to all go away.

"Lord Sunday, right?"

"Yes?" the edge dipped with such bitter politeness, she tasted it and flinched away.

"Is this all your fault? The plague, the kidnapping, and all this…"

"Why yes. Yes it is."

"Why? Is the plague some biological terrorist weapon? Threatening the world, hurting thousands of people, why?" Chuckling at the silly assumptions, he dismissed all her thoughts.

"No, no, no. You see, it's a bit more complicated than that. I wonder, do you believe in any sort of magic?"

"Like what you did there," nodding towards the floating fire. Even if it smoldered near the roof, she still sidled as far away from it.

"Yes. Do you believe in a god?"

"No, such utter things are irrelevant and foolish." Her eyes suddenly widened in some enlightenment. "Oh, I get it, are you some Jesuits meet terrorists meet magic with redemption whipped cream and an Armageddon cherry on top with some slight overtone of obsession?" The grin toned down to a smile, toning down the level of fear to a point. He leaned against the wall before starting his reply,

"Impressive, even in terms like these, you still have some sort of sense of humor." She just shifted her glasses. Maybe he wasn't that bad. No. This is still bad.

"No?"

"No. Where you live in, Earth is part of the universe which we call the secondary realms. We're from the House, the true epicenter of the universe. We're not human," he explained. Feeling more trapped in a room with a puppet than demon, she was disturbed at the lack of emotion, and all discharged from his mouth was fake and pretend. All she thought he said were delusions and madness, that he in a straitjacket needed to be locked away in a white padded room with a daily popping of pills.

"Not human?" He nodded and clenched his fist until it bled. In this light, she expected purple blood, but what she saw went against all her doctor instincts. Run, something inside yelled. Beating _red_, her heart skipped a beat. It wasn't blood; it shimmered like liquid gold, dripping from his open palm.

"What…impossible…" While she looked on in shock, he tilted his head up, proud of his difference.

"We are denizens, practically immortal and in every way superior to your race, rightful runners of everything. Though common denizen blood is blue, those of higher standings…"

"Have your blood?" Wiping off the blood with a handkerchief he had kept in his pocket,

"Well, rules are different here. So is time. Now I want you to shut up and listen, yes. First off the checklist, time. It runs true here, six months in yours, malleable too, but a day here."

"So if you take me back…it'll be as if I hardly left."

"Didn't you listen," he growled. She yelped and covered her mouth. He huffed. "You should be grateful that I am allowing to you to learn of these things. It feels shameful to talk to someone wholesomely ignorant."

"Hey!" she interjected to soon punish herself again, trying to become very compliant to avoid getting hurt. What is going on! I want to leave here. Please, let this be a nightmare. Sunday growled at the response.

"I'll let that slide. About the god…"

"Are you him, if you are the master of everything?" she cupped her mouth. Now was one of the times she hated her big mouth. Running hard and fast, uncontrolled, beating faster and faster, the adrenaline pumping. Run.

"Did you not hear me?" rumbled the back of his throat.

"…" His hand slipped off the wall, dragging sparks and materializing a long blade. So sharp, slicing air into ribbons. She covered her head. Glowing with the help of the shifting fire, tears shined, sliding down her face. Run.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The Keys to the Kingdom belongs to Garth Nix

* * *

_A Day like Sunday_

_What is compassion? Say a women refuses to give a beggar anything, passing by ignoring. Horrible. But let us say that money she would not give actually went to a charity. Is it horrible? But is that compassion, ignoring those in need right in front of them?

* * *

_

Screaming pain of ice metal roaring through your flesh, it hurt. He hurt her. The crimson blood flying and falling, drip after drip after drip. Congregating together beneath her from soaking her coat, stained and flecked with dirt, to discoloring her tears. Once the clearness of glass now mottled to a sort of pink, a mixture creating suffering, pain, and fear. Crimson, it was rubbish, stupid, defiled blood, unworthy for a denizen. She deserved it, disobeying his orders. Deserve it, did she now?

He had her blood on his hands now. Blood covered the fingers, palm, and knuckles. If he washed a hundred times over, would it ever go away? Blood is blood and never permanent, but he'll know that it was there. What now? Make her listen? Shimmering silver and red at the point, ugly, ugly red, the blade became too heavy for his hand, too heavy for his…heart.

Run. It was cold. It was dark. It was painful. Clutching her stomach, bleeding so profusely. Copious amounts of blood stained the walls, painting the scream. She wanted to go home, to her family, friends, life. Those matters now so elusive, trapped, alone, and dying. For the weeks she spent here, she found it to be more than a dream, now a cruel reality verging on hell. A metal clatter to the ground and the weapon dissolved away into nothingness. Was he scared? Should he run? Walk away and she dies. Simple as that. Then what?

Help her. Blaring, shouting, kicking, those words kept ringing. It shrieked so loud, it scratched and clawed against the shackles, it wouldn't stop. Tugging the chains, never withholding, but they wouldn't break, it yelled over and over til the voice dry and exhausted, but no one would hear. Lances tried to make it stop, embedding deep, so deep, pinning it down. It kept on. Help her, please.

He ran. Not even to bother closing the door he unlocked by key. The flames died behind him and she may soon join them. With a face set to stone, a mind writhing in agony, trying so hard to push him back, so tempting to just run. I'm going to walk away, and she's not going to die. Mind lashed out calling it a lie! He told the denizen officer standing by the door to apply medical care to the prisoner. He heard not a single word from his mouth as he issued the command. Nodding, the denizen walked inside, never questioning what had happened, torchlight on and sorcery wisps circled around his hand. An officer here was trained in crude medical practices.

Out of earshot, out of eyeshot, he picked up his pace hastening from dank darkness to night, out of the hole, away from everyone. Breath condensing, skin feeling so cold, he ran so much harder, faster. His feet clattering on the stone paths, wind flowing past his face, ice daggers attacking his senses. The distance it carried him, the crunching of fallen leaves as he pounded on, slowly, it started to sizzle, flash. Hate, self-pity, guilt took life and tailed him. Why was he running? I'm scared. Why? Because…because…

Moonlight danced on fluid grounds, the river worming its way through immaculate shrubbery and life burned him. Run, and keep on running. Fear won't let go. Run, just run. For him, pain started growing. For her, it eased. The officer turned her over with no resistance, lost too much of her life to move, unconscious. Adept hands mended her wound. Working its way over and under, skin overlapped and pressed, blood boiled and spilled no more. The job was done, and was now time back to the desk. He might make a new cup of tea. He nodded at this good idea and left the prison.

Sunday stopped running now, sitting under a tree nearby the river bank, small waves rolling, washing with it the shine of the moon, the light of the stars, the untainted specks in the sky. Sweat matted his hair, cooled his body. But thoughts ever racing, ever going. Lord Sunday, master of the House. How long are you going to keep it?

Pip…no, the Piper has mass forces against you, vengeance his goal. He saw the blazing hatred in the Piper's eyes. As his older brother, he did nothing. Rather brotherly love and surprise at his sudden reappearing to be only shattered like a mirror with all the pieces falling into a void as deep as the one Pip fell into. A thought crawled from the deepest niche, your brother, reconcile with him. A hammer struck that insect and boomed: an enemy, destroy him.

The heir, measly Arthur Penhaligon, a formidable force to be reckoned with. His skill and speed had far surpassed his expectations. He had also amassed forces for himself. That worried Sunday. Mind strangely silent of the subject. A matter of time, before one or the other _–run-_ destroys him. He can't keep running. Fight, prove yourself worthy of your power, and destroy them both. But, he was scared. Just wanted to run away, run because it kept you away from the danger. He stood up, a heaving breath _–run-._

"Never!" he howled; golden glints fizzled in his hand. "I swear on the paramount key of the House, my title and pride as the almighty leader, that I will defeat all in my path. That I _will not_ be scared of you. You will fall down to me and hail me as your king!"_Liar. You know the will. _Mind was so secure as a guardian, a stone in his path, besting, blocking all of Sunday's whims. _The heir will overtake you. You'll be lucky if he decides for a painless death. He's determined, sturdy, a better denizen that what you'll be. _"No, he will fall. No matter what is dictated. Life is never set. The path is paved by the walker not the watchers. Leave me alone."

Anger subsided, breathing noxious fumes Sunday's way before leaving, compassion ran away leaving behind traces of fear. Did he actually name them that, Sunday scoffed. Anger should be pride or greed, or perhaps the denizen mindset of himself, compassion? Yes, that seemed about right. Something so human, scared in a world meant for the empty, soulless, creatures not deserved to be called men. No passions on which it could feast on, nothing to tangle and twist around itself feeling all sounds, smells, sights. Sunday exhaled and turned his attention to the river, sparkling and glistening in beauty. How long did he have left before he could no longer see this? Compassion panted with the entirely unfamiliar effort of running back, and shyly smiled at the edge of his thoughts.

Hours passed, things returned to a relatively normal rhythm of life, well now Sunday classified it as some sort of non-life. Feet upon his desk, fingers drumming and tapping to the tunes running inside his head. In these technical dead hours of night, things were peaceful and quiet, thoughts kindly kept to themselves, and no one attempted anything out of order. Sight grazing across the room: hey, the view of the gardens from here was quite the spectacle. The brilliant colors drowned out by silver dust, sparking waters rushing on hurried fins to a destination impossible to reach. Mind focused only in the new sensations scattered unknown around him.

"My lord, sir." Both Noon and Dusk appeared at is doorway. Compassion welcomed them in open arms. Sunday shifted to a more proper position and bid them to continue. A smile tugged at the ends of his mouth. Some sort of company would be nice. "You have a visitor," Noon started.

"And someone wishes to have an audience with you," Dusk finished. Incredible, he thought, the way they don't skip a beat. He spied the fingers of Noon entwined around Dusk.

"Who?" he asked, trying so hard not to laugh or to stutter. Compassion always made him feel so giddy, alive with the magic of the world. Unclipped wings of flight unrestricted, freedom above all else!

"The Mariner," replied Noon.

"Dame Primus," replied Dusk.

"How urgent?" Which one? Which one? A new person to talk to, to socialize. In a way, compassion was a child, always aspiring for more and more. To feel everything it could get its hands on. What's worse was that child had power, controlled only by its impulses. But Mind enjoyed all the experiences the same as Compassion and was too caught up to care.

"Enough that Dame Primus is going to kill you is you aren't with her now."

"A message that urgent? Really?"

"Well-"

"Move aside!" A burly looking man, big but not the flapping fat type, just big with rippling muscles i.e. weapons of minor disturbance, blustered through the two sentries. Gigantic, clad in a greatcoat with a polished harpoon in hand ready to be thrown, a figure fit for epics and adventures against giant squids and monsters of unimaginable appearances that raid the seas for sailors and protect the treasures of immense fortune. Well, maybe he did have adventures in the far flung regions of the realms. "Oi! Sunday, I need a little talk with you!" he bellowed as whale, compassion held on to every word, presence, and feature.

"This is compassion speaking, please leave a message at the beep. I've a got date with Dame Primus tonight," clipping the last word. Sunday gave Tom the thumbs-up. Tom glared at his older brother, or rather Compassion. Remember the do's and don'ts with each…level of consciousness; compassion was the hardest to work and deal with, wild and unpredictable. Dusk and Noon took a gander at each other, she held his hand harder.

She opened her mouth to speak in the Mariner's moment of hesitation, "Lord Sunday, the Piper's forces have been camping out on Saturday's tower, so I'll go arranged the forces now to defend?" Noon piped up as she finished, "and Dame Primus wishes to meet you in the lyceum in the Middle House." Leaning over to the side of his chair to look around the Mariner, Sunday nodded almost losing his balanced before he caught himself and straightened.

"You two lovebirds may leave now!" Blushing with the sudden mentions of her feelings, she shied away from Noon, let go, and stared straight to the ground, burning a hole through it. Noon had let go also and coughed. They bowed, backed away, and left. Click of the door and they were alone. With each other, Sunday mused. "Hello, Tom. Beautiful evening is it not."

"You know, compassion isn't very liked by my terms."

"You'd rather speak with empty Mind or brazen Anger?" he said, tilting his head to one side.

"Mind listens to reason. Anger does to a certain extent, in any case his version of correct reason. Both aren't silly mindsets dabbling in mundane things."

"Mundane!" Compassion feigned hurt, "how could you to a brother?"

"How could I?" Tom pointed to himself. "How could you!"

"Can I go meet Dame Primus now? This doesn't seem to be going anywhere," Compassion whined.

"Go ahead; this talk can wait under more _favorable_ conditions. All you do is ruin things. Look around." Thoroughly offended, Compassion scoffed.

"You're not happy right now are you?" it accused.

"You just want to know because then compassion can just mull over it and play with the reactions not that you actually care. Ironic, ain't it? To name it that way." Sunday looked away, shadows obscuring his face hiding what he felt. Was it nothing? Compassion liked the rage and sadness. Mind didn't and said. "Guess I'll be leaving then for the matters currently occupying the time of Dame Primus. Good night, Mariner."

The Mariner grunted and with heavy footfalls, exited the office and out the tower.

"I do not wish you luck my brother."

Lord Sunday stared upon the closed doors in dissatisfaction before calling on his key to enter the improbable stair.

"This is a dysfunctional world. Anyone who finds happiness in it is a lunatic."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The Keys to the Kingdom belongs to Garth Nix

* * *

_A Day like Sunday_

_Dying pages of distorted ink falls to the ground, drowning in the sea of water. It washes away, forgotten.

* * *

_

"Dame Primus, I presume. Very nice to meet you," Sunday exclaimed, striding into the empty lyceum, a lofty room extravagantly decorated with etchings and moldings into the paneled wood with a stage at the very center, raised up high. Surrounding it were seats aligned in rows. All of the room was paneled wood, polished and iridescent, deep and heavy in a caramel color. Embedded in the ceiling were glass panels to the sight of the night sky, oddly so without stars tonight just pitch darkness.

She stood on the platform with a callous expression which Sunday paid no heed to. The crimson silk scarf she wore around her delicate neck fluttered in various sways and circles and her scarlet dress billowed softly from the slow breeze he has let in when he entered. It wrapped around her form, creating a painting of a sculpted women where everything was perfect and smooth and lines with hardly a rough edge.

"I hadn't expected you actually answer," a threatening voice followed. He inwardly jeered, so this is the notorious blot of ink staining my pleasure. Continuing his descent to her, she soon towered over him. He was just as tall as her; it was just the added height of the stage. He leaned forward giving her a low bow with his arm across his chest. But it was done in such an uncommitted sloppy way that it gave her insult rather than respect. She scowled, yet nevertheless the nasty expression remained beautiful and clean.

"Of course, "he chided, "that _I_ would be here. Why would I then take the precious time away from my busy schedule to meet you? I mean, you are 'the' most powerful force in the house. _Nothing_ can rival you. Now please I beg of you, divulge your reason for calling me." The sycophantic words almost choked him but that feeling was quickly overruled when he saw how much it affected her, unnerved her.

"I want to work out a deal." She stepped closer to him, to the edge of the stage. Small taps came from her stiletto heels.

"I'm hearing, but I won't listen until you say what's in it for me." He shrugged and smiled.

"If you give up your power and demesne to me, I'll assure that you'll receive certain benefits when the heir resumes his post as the new and rightful master of the House." To that Sunday pouted.

"Benefits? Are you so sure that the 'heir' would actually achieve the results you have set for him?"

"It is dictated," she snapped.

"Really…" Sunday mumbled.

"You doubt me?"

"Yes, it occurred to me that you have been locked away for eons and that now, out of the blue, you expect absolute order and control. Listen now, Dame Primus, the heir isn't going to do anything that will hurt me. It's impossible. In fact, what we have here now is a waste of time."

"Enough Lord Sunday," she barked. He chuckled at her anger.

"You are finally seeing my way and contemplating the options?"

"My options?"

"You see, I will take one and only one stance on this matter. That I cannot be locked away and that you are nothing but a little prick so easily removed". Taking long strides, he moved up the short set of stairs leading up the stage. She followed him with her eyes. With hands in his pockets and leaning forward, he approached her spouting words that made her scowl. "It's sad really, how much faith you have placed in the heir. What if he doesn't succeed? What if you're left all alone with no one to help you?"

"What's do you mean?" She shied away from his hasty approach. But even as she did, he was faster and caught up to her, meeting her gaze. Silver sparks whispered and cried before drowning into light.

"Like tonight, just us under the roof of this so empty room." Hot breath blew into her face. "Can anyone hear you screaming?" Teeth clenched and he pulled a striking silver blade embraced with sapphire sparks, striking and snapping the air, from the shadows and stepped into an arc aiming to behead her. Out of instinct of an animal threatened, she jumped back letting Sunday miss physically while the tracking plasma bit and clawed her skin drawing black ink from the wounds. Hands went up to stop the flow. He laughed with his blade by his side, dripping with the ink now slowly fading, "I see, you can get hurt. Can you catch death in this form?"

Wide eyes and a furrowed brow answered his inquisitions. With a graceful form, she materialized the fourth key from the dark crevices of her scarf. The baton, emblazoned with argent dragons and golden serpents, shimmered and flickered out of reality into a long sword which she held poised above her head.

"So I am challenged," he whispered; a dance ensued by a duo, a man in black and a woman in bright scarlet painting the stage in flying rivulets of ink and golden blood. With their blades posing as brushes, they set to find the paint that'll arise from each other's bodies. The blades clashed and sparked as they came at each other. He grinned while she held an absolute sentry disposition. Charging across the stage, he slid the blade along the floor ending with a swift uppercut. The long sword crashed with the electricity that ran down the metal to her hands shocking their grip. The electricity leaped and ransacked her body. She fell to her knees. The long sword almost dropped and before she could run away, he brought his blade down harder, electricity shrieking.

She narrowed her eyes looking away and mumbled a small incantation. Brilliant green infernos blazed between them, knocking Sunday to the floor but the blade still remained in his hand. Pain of a strained body forced her to take her time standing up. Ink spurted from the open scars taking away color. The pale skin around them dissolved in words and letters that fell to the floor before shriveling and dying.

Sunday stood up too, examining his singed suit. He then, frowning in displeasure, turned his attention back to her, leering at her through the climbing inferno. Via his key, he opened a void of nothing contorting the flames. The liquid tentacles gushed from the hole, molding the fire, merging with it. Its arms ending in solid rock claws grew from its center and slammed into the stage, digging into the ashen wood. It grew teeth which gnashed and legs that gave it height far over her, a long tail tipped with poison slithered from behind it. Radiating wings of unbearable heat erupted from the figure. Deep rattling rumbled from the back of its throat into the screaming howl to the outside. She covered her ears from the sound that broke all the windows above them. Glass screamed also, tinkling to the ground all over Dame Primus and around Sunday as if brushed away by an invisible field. The void closed and disappeared.

The final form was a burning beast of a demented dragon as large as the mile-high lyceum itself. It had too many wild eyes all focused on her, too many arms ready to pick her apart, too many jaws wanting to feed, too many minds of hate and anger that controlled it. The molten skin bubbled and boiled, tendrils constantly made and broken. It was an ugly, half-hearted thing looking at it would melt down at any time, hardly able to keep itself together. It breathed. The heavy stench of smoke and tainted blood violated her sense of smell.

From behind the dragon nithling, she heard Sunday, "Don't you just adore what I've wrought?"

"It's a monstrosity," she commented, worried.

"Oh course." He yelled."Let's have fun, Dame Primus!" Compassion watched with open eyes, the impending slaughter. The nithling howled again and scampered to her causing quakes, unsteadying her. Every foot and arm lifted from the ground left remnants of its own body. A bubble popped in one of its limbs causing it to fall off completely only to be hastily grown back with melting muscle and bone. She had no thought of what to do next, her only instinct was to run. She dropped the sword to the ground. It clattered. Stumbling back, she ran.

It followed so quickly it stretched its own body. The weakened sides broke and its innards surged out. It broke itself in half chasing her; its spine hauled on the ground wearing it down to nerve. Sunday watched his creation pursue its prey, amused. Mind didn't like it. He watched her throw sorcerous spells one after the other trying to stop it and using her key to the fullest extent. He shook his head. It was futile. His key was paramount. Nothing could break down his nithling. He saw her exploding the head of his beast, covering her in reeking blood, only to have the head grow back with open jaws. Mind was shocked and abhorred. Looming over her was a giant gaping hole lined with endless rows of sharpened teeth. She covered her head and closed her eyes. Sunday laughed, an odd laugh that seemed as if it was screaming.


End file.
